


unlikely connections

by smallredboy



Category: Hannibal (TV), House M.D.
Genre: (for both shows), Bars and Pubs, Crossover, Drinking & Talking, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, On the Run, Post-Finale, Will Graham is a little shit, cannibalism & murder talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Against Hannibal's advice, Will goes to a bar while they're on the run. He meets James Wilson there.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson, Will Graham & James Wilson, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 92
Collections: A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar





	unlikely connections

**Author's Note:**

> For the **into a bar** challenge.
> 
> Enjoy!

Hannibal had advised him heavily against going to a bar, especially while they were still in the States. It was too dangerous, the idea of someone recognizing him and calling the cops hanging above their head. But Will wanted a drink, ached for it, and they were in California now, at a small town in the middle of nowhere with a nice, tiny bar.

In further thought, maybe Will would prefer a bar more packed with people than this one, so there's less chances of him being recognized among the crowd and the dim lighting. But this is what he had, so he made his bed and laid in it — he goes and settles in front of the bar, asks the bartender for some whiskey.

After a few minutes, a man comes and sits right next to him, and he can't help but freeze a little in fear, taking a sip of his whiskey as he tries to pass himself off as _normal_ , as not a man on the run with his husband.

"Hello," the man greets. He's easy on the eyes, although he looks rather tired — his brown hair is a little overgrown, bags under his coffee-colored eyes, thick brows furrowed together as he asks the bartender for a fruity cocktail Will's brain doesn't compute the name of.

"Hi," Will says. "What's your name?"

"James Wilson," he replies. "You're definitely not a local from here, and neither am I. What're you doing here, in the middle of nowhere?"

He lets out a soft laugh. "Decided to take a road trip with my husband," he says.

It's not entirely a lie.

"Oh, me too!" Wilson exclaims, eyes shining with curiosity. "I was… it's a long story, but basically I got diagnosed with cancer and we decided to spend my last six month together."

"Jesus Christ. Are you… um… how much time d'you have left?"

Will wonders, briefly, if Hannibal has ever eaten someone with cancer. If they taste any different.

"Minus two months," he says, smiling at him, leaning his chin on his palm. "I'm in remission. But my husband can't go back to work for… reasons, so we're still just sort of going around the country. We're thinking of going to live somewhere else."

"We can't go back home for _reasons_ as well," Will says. Again, not a lie. "We're considering going to live to Argentina or such. Some place where we'll go unnoticed."

Wilson's brows furrow deeper. "You sound more like you're on the run rather than you're in a road trip." 

Will gives him a wide, predatory smile. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know?"

He stands up. The bartender is out of sight. Perhaps calling the cops or something; Will knows he can slip out of sight if that's the case, and that Hannibal is watching the bar from far away, just in case.

"What did you do?" Wilson asks. "My husband is in a… similar situation, anyway. On terms of not being… _allowed_ to go back home, at least."

"Well, unless he's like _my_ husband, I don't think our situations are anything alike," he replies. He looks at his whiskey, takes a long sip from his glass. "Have you heard of the Chesapeake Ripper, by any chance?"

Wilson's eyes widen and his face pales. "You're — Oh. You're Will Graham."

"The very same." He looks at Wilson with curiosity in his eyes. "What are you two running away from?"

"My husband faked his death to be with me," he says. "Otherwise he would've been sent to prison."

"For something not murderous, I'm assuming."

"Not really." Wilson finishes his cocktail, puts it down. "Ran his car into his ex's house, went to prison for like a year, and then did other shit and avoided his sentence."

"Damn." He hums lightly. "Are you going to call the cops? Tell them the fabled murder husbands are in the middle of nowhere in California?"

Wilson lets out a sigh, considers his options. "I assume you'll be able to slip away before they catch you."

"And you'd be correct."

He fiddles with his empty glass, looking quite disgruntled. "Why'd you come here, anyway?"

"We're going south," he informs him. "Mexico, and then… who knows where else. The border is hard to go through." He smiles at him, lopsided and very smug. "As you can guess, though, it may just be what I _want_ you to think. What I _want_ you to tell the FBI."

Wilson gets up from his seat. "I didn't come here to get my head messed with by some… _serial killer_ ," he hisses out.

"Oh, you're boring," Will calls out. "Tell your husband it's not so hard, bein' on the run. He'll get used to it after a while, just like we did."

"Any advice, apart from murder?"

"Oh, you don't need murder to lay low while on the run. At least, well, if you're not cannibalistic. Then you kind of run out of food at one point —"

" _Enough_ ," Wilson says as he steps out of the bar, Will following him, hands deep in his pockets. 

"Well, you're gonna have to get used to doing illegal things. But you're legally alive still, right? Probably. So you don't need to. Just keep your husband out of sight, or get a fake identity. Either works. If he might be recognizable like we are, I recommend changing your look. Like, him growing his hair out, sunglasses, a different clothing style, all that stuff."

"He barely has any hair, much less any to grow out," Wilson mumbles.

"Oh, the aches of old age," he tells him, laughing softly. "My husband's around the same age as him, then? Fifties?"

"Yeah." Wilson looks away onto the horizon. There's the nice evening heat around them, not too cold but not too warm. "He's still anxious about me dying, even though I'm in remission."

"Well, Hannibal's not an oncologist, but he could still do with helpin' someone in a pinch, huh?"

"I suppose he could. Do you, um, have cellphones, or…?"

"Yes," Will says. "Geo-tags are Hell on Earth, but as long as we keep our identities on the down low in anything we do online, we're safe from my ex-coworkers. I can give you his number."

"Let's hope we're in the same continent if I happen to be dying, then," Wilson says.

He smiles widely, almost like a predator having caught its prey. He can hear Wilson's worry about getting killed.

"Don't worry, James," he says as he hands him a napkin with Hannibal's phone number in it. "I'm sure cancer isn't very flavorful."

Wilson makes a vague noise of agreement and walks away from him, all while Will leans against the wall of the bar, quite happy about meeting someone and talking to them (someone other than Hannibal — God is it asphyxiating for Hannibal Lecter to be your only social contact most of the time). It's even better to scare them a little.

He walks back to the place he's staying with Hannibal in. He's sure he will be quite amused by his encounter.


End file.
